


Fumbling in the Dark

by Angelike



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense, The Silver Chair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-11
Updated: 2009-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the four companions make their way through the darkness of the Underworld, certain truths come to light. Years of living under a dark enchantment have left their mark on the young Prince Rilian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumbling in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Although I'm aware that in the bookverse Eustace is merely age nine and Rilian is age thirty-one, I've always mentally seen Eustace as a teenager and Rilian as a good deal younger. So this story assumes that Eustace is fourteen and Rilian is twenty-two. The age difference still makes any sexual activities akin to statutory rape, whether Eustace consents or no, so please be aware that this story may be inappropriate for anyone offended by instances of dubious consent, child molestation, etc. I've tried to make the story as palatable as possible, but this is meant to be an exploration of how the witch's control might have warped Rilian's mind. There will be romance, yes, but the story is not intended to be light-hearted by any means.

The seduction was such a surreal experience that Eustace later had trouble believing it had ever happened at all.

It all started out innocently enough.

Although they had good reason for hurrying along their way following the breaking of the witch's enchantment and her subsequent defeat, the horses could not go on forever without a rest—and, well, neither could they. The Prince may have been (rather obnoxiously) chipper in light of his newly regained freedom, but then again _he_ had not been deprived of adequate food and rest for what felt like eons prior to the all-too-exciting series of events that had led them to this point. Even Jill didn't object to pausing for a brief shut-eye, and that was saying something, what with the way she had very nearly worked herself into hysterics about being buried alive a short while ago. Aslan's chosen heroes and their faithful guide had been running on adrenaline and the rush was wearing down.

Eustace had never been so happy to lie on jaggedly rocky earth.

He was a little surprised when the Prince settled down next to him a short while later—a little nervous, too, if he was being honest. This young man may be Caspian's son—may share some of those same arrogant traits that had once offered both frustration and comfort in equal measure—but he was still strange to him. There was something in the intensity of his eyes, in the brittleness hiding behind an easy smile that made his chest tighten and belly flutter nervously. Eustace had never felt so out of sorts around another person and he didn't like it.

Still, the warm nearness of another body in the dark was a welcome comfort.

Loneliness dwelled in this dreadful place, weighing down on him and coiling around his thoughts like some terrible disease. He was exhausted, but rest would not come to him. Every time the world began to fall away, he would jerk back to himself, a sob caught in his throat at the thought of being left, forgotten and alone in this tomb. Groping blindly for reassurance, his hands would seek out the man beside him, fingers tangling in ruffles and lace for one desperate moment before remembering himself, ashamed. He was not a coward. And the Prince may be an ally, but he was not a friend.

Time slipped by with terrible ease. Eustace lay, caught in that place between sleeping and waking, and listened to the even breathing of Jill and Puddleglum from across their tiny makeshift fire, to the muffled crackling of the flames, to the restless shifting of the man at his side. Suddenly he missed his mother.

When the Prince inched closer and careful hands pulled him to rest against a firm chest, Eustace tensed but did not argue. “I don't want to be alone either,” the Prince whispered kindly. Relaxing, Eustace buried his face in those ridiculous frills and drifted off to the sound of a steady heartbeat and the feel of gentle fingers combing through his hair.

Their respite ended all too soon.

“We mustn't dawdle,” Puddleglum said, pointedly ignoring the unseemly way Eustace was clinging to his liege lord. “Sleep can wait until we're aboveground.” Blearily, he mumbled something about bossy frogs and curled in closer. The vibrations of the Prince's rumbling chuckle sent shivers down his spine.

His face burned, but he didn't know why.

Later, as they all nibbled at their meager rations and speculated over the extent of the damage they had left behind, Puddleglum confessed the reason for his sudden haste: “I am more interested in the lamps on this road. Look a bit sickly, don't they?”

The lamps were fading.

Eustace tried not to think of it—of the very real possibility that the glowing green lights might be the last light they ever saw, that they may soon be swallowed forever by the dark. Pursing his lips, Eustace rested his forehead against the broad shoulder of the newly-rested and saddled Snowflake with a gusty sigh, wishing he could share some of the timid beast's peace. Oh, to be a mindless animal!

“If you're still feeling tired,” the Prince said earnestly as he made the final adjustments to the saddle of his steed, “you might consider riding in front of me this time.”

“In front of you?” Eustace repeated, peering through the gloom at the young man gazing back at him. The offer seemed strange, somehow—intimate?

The Prince grinned, humor sparking ominously: “Come now, I don't bite! This way, you could catch a little shut eye without fear of injury. We wouldn't want you to slip off the back and break something important, now would we?”

Eustace grumbled, but the Prince's offer seemed genuine and he _was_ tired. And he _had_ slept rather well last night ... this morning ... well, _earlier_ (and what wouldn't he give to know what bloody time of day it was!). So. Could he really say no? Just because the idea made him feel vaguely unquiet? It wasn't as if he wouldn't be awkwardly close to the Prince anyway.

“I wouldn’t be in the way? Of the reins, I mean? Or, er…”

A choked laugh: “I think I'll manage!”

Less than an hour later Eustace was already drowsing quietly, leaning into a loose embrace. The Prince was a solid presence at his back, one hand resting on Eustace's belly, holding him steady, the other resting in his lap, grasping the reins. Silence had settled over the four companions some time ago. The sound of soft breaths tickling his ear and the clip-clip-clip of the horses' hooves were a tranquil lullaby.

He didn’t even really notice anything was amiss until the Prince’s hand slipped under his shirt and a wet mouth had latched onto his exposed neck in a manner that could not be mistaken for anything but what it was. “Oh,” he gasped, wide-eyed and stunned, but the sound was muffled by a calloused hand. Apparently the Prince wasn’t all that concerned with guiding Coalback after the dim form of Snowflake and her two weary passengers (who had already drawn ahead by some distance)—not when he could be _molesting_ Eustace instead!

“Peace, Eustace,” the Prince breathed lowly, voice lust-thickened and dark. Cool fingers trailed feather-light up his chest, circling one nipple consideringly before rolling it between his fingers. Eustace chocked, jerking violently, and tried to elbow himself away—but the Prince was bigger than he was and utterly determined to have his way. “Peace. I won’t hurt you. Just—just be silent and let me touch you. You’ll like this. I promise.”

Eustace was not comforted.

With a terrified whimper, he wiggled and squirmed and writhed in the Prince’s arms, trying to break free, but a barely restrained moan against his throat and a foreign hardness pressing into the small of his back stilled him. “I don’t suggest you do that again,” the Prince warned, voice trembling and strained.

_Oh, bloody hell!_

Swallowing nervously, Eustace indicated his assent with a curt nod. The _last_ thing he wanted was to _encourage him_.

“That’s a good lad.” And the Prince set back to work with great concentration, returning to his teasing with renewed vigor.

The Prince was skilled, Eustace had to grant him that—not that he knew a whole lot about such things, really, because he was only fourteen and the closest he’d ever come to something like this was a fumbling kiss in a broom-closet with some bushy-haired girl he’d never met before (and would likely never meet again, thank goodness!) during a game of truth or dare so, yeah, not a lot of room for comparison here but oh, _yes_, the Prince knew what he was doing. Eustace was a panting puddle of goo before too long and he was biting his own fist to silence the sound of his whimpers before he realized that while the one hand continued to caress and torment, the other was busy unlacing his trousers.

His breath hitched. Being kissed and fondled was one thing; being touched _there_, on the other hand… “Stop,” he pleaded plaintively, “I can’t do this.”

“Quiet, now,” the Prince reminded him, “and just let me take care of you.”

“But I can’t…”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just keep quiet and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Yes. That’s what he was afraid of.

“But–”

Any capability he might have had for further argument vanished in the next moment, when a certain part of him was exposed to the cool air and the Prince’s avid attention. To his utter mortification, blood was already pooling in his groin and when the spit-slick hand wrapped around him, he _knew_ he was done for.

His own hand never felt like that.

Heart thumping wildly against his chest, he darted a panicked glance at their unknowing companions, half-hoping and half-fearing that one of them might hazard a glance back to see what was keeping them and, thus, put an end to this insanity.

How could something so wrong feel so right?

The Prince stroked him gently, at first, easing him forward to the brink of ecstasy with cautious motions and a constant murmur (“–look so lovely like this, as I knew you would, right from the moment I saw you–”), but it seemed he wasn’t satisfied with the small, kittenish mewls he was drawing from his victim of lust. No, he wanted to _make Eustace scream_.

His fist tightened.

His pace quickened.

Eustace threw his head back and a savage mouth covered his own, swallowing his startled cry as he fell into oblivion. He squeezed his eyes so tight that phantom lights danced across his vision, erratic and strange.

When he came back to himself, he was twisted awkwardly and staring into the Prince’s shadowy face. He fancied the man’s expression was very much reminiscent of the cat that stole the cream. The thought took new meaning when Prince brought his soiled hand to his lips and lapped at the evidence of Eustace’s pleasure. “Mmm,” he moaned, smacking his lips wickedly, “delicious.” Then: “Red is a good color on you.”

Funny how he still had the energy to blush. Certainly he hadn’t the energy for much else.

Chuckling, the Prince took mercy on him and set him to rights, cleaning away his … er, _fluids_ with a handkerchief before tucking him back into his trousers. Boneless, he melted back into the Prince’s insistent arms without protest, not even when the man curled around him and buried his face in the nap of his abused neck.

“You smell like sunshine.”

Eustace wanted to speak, to ask what sunshine smiled like, but his tongue was like cotton and the words stuck, thick and heavy in his throat. Speech was well beyond his cognitive abilities at this point, and what did it matter, really? He was tired, so very tired, and the Prince's embrace was so pleasant, so warm...

“Sleep,” the Prince bade him. “Sleep, and dream of me.”

And this sounded like a perfectly lovely idea—so he did.


End file.
